Death of a Songbird
by Rabbit
Summary: ::Updated: 6/13/02, ch 2:: Medda has been murdered. Jack and the others must find out who did it... without getting killed themselves.
1. Chapter 1

**Death of the Songbird**

**Chapter 1:**

            Jack politely nodded, and flashed a smile towards the young woman who had just bought a newspaper from him. "Thank ya miss, have a nice day." He was pleased with himself. Sales that day were going smoothly, and quickly, for the first time in weeks, to where he almost didn't get a moment to rest between clusters of customers. The headlines were good, his improvisations were excellent, and the day was beautiful… things couldn't get any better, and certainly nothing could bring him down. It was Jack Kelly's perfect day.

            "Jack! _Jack!"_

            He turned and saw Swifty sprinting towards him. Hastily, he grabbed Jack's arm and began pulling him in the direction he had come.

            "Hey, hey, hey, what's the rush, Swift?" he asked, wriggling his arm out of the other newsboy's hold.

            He gave Jack a serious look. "Somethin' happened t' Medda. The fellas told me t' find ya. C'mon!" He began leading the way again.

            "Somethin'… t' Medda? What? What happened?" he demanded, running to catch up. He felt his gut twisting in fear. Nothing could ever happen to Medda Larkson… right?

            Swifty shook his head. "I dunno Jack. I didn't stay long enough t' find out. But the bulls are swarmin' Irving Hall."

            Jack swallowed hard, rounding the street corner after him. Where the police were involved, something terrible happened.

            They reached Irving Hall a few minutes later, to find a huge crowd conglomerated around the entrance and the alley beside it. Jack shoved his way through, with Swifty at his heels. The sense of fear he experienced was now full-fledged terror. He felt someone grab his arm, and, startled, he whirled, almost punching Mush in the process.

            "Jack, don't go in there," the newsboy pleaded, trying to pull him back.

            "Let go! I gotta see what happened t' Medda."

            "Jack, no! Guys, help me hold 'im back!" Skittery and Pie Eater seized his other arm and helped Mush pull him back through the crowd.

            "Lemme go!" he yelled, struggling against their hold. "Dammit, let go! I gotta see what happened!"

            "Ya can't, Jack!"

            He turned towards Mush. "Why can't I, Mush, huh? Jus' gimme a good reason!" he yelled.

            "We's jus' tryin' t' protect ya…"

            "Protect me from what?" When Mush didn't answer, Jack grabbed his shoulders and snapped the question again.  
            "Medda's been murdered, a'right?!" he shot in return.

            Quickly, Jack released him. "What? You… you's kiddin' me… ain'cha Mush? Medda's like… Medda's part of me family, Mush. She can't be…" He turned, and looked towards Irving Hall again, his shoulders rising and falling raggedly as he drew in deep, uneven breaths.

            "Jack?" Mush began hesitantly. When the older newsboy didn't respond, he said again, "Jack?"

            Jack ignored him, shoving his way deeper into the crowd. Medda couldn't be dead. Mush just had it all wrong. Mush was lying to him. They all were. Medda was fine, Medda was-

            "Step back, kid."

            He blinked and shook his head, staring at the policeman who held a hand out in front of him. "I wanna get through!"

            "Can't, kid. There's been a murder. Now go on with your business."

            "But I-"

            "Beat it!" He crammed his club into the boy's shoulder and shoved him back.

            A small crowd came from the entrance of Irving Hall, lugging a large bag between them. Jack craned his neck around the officer, staring at them as the harsh reality slapped him in the face.

            "Break it up, folks!" the officer shouted, shoving Jack roughly back into the crowd. "There's nothing to see here. Move along."

            He stayed in place, not hearing the demands of the policeman, watching as the group of official looking people carefully placed the bag into a buggy and quickly afterwards left the scene. Soon, it was just Jack and a few other newsboys standing in front of the Hall. Jack still stared at the spot the buggy had been sitting. The others were watching him worriedly.

            "All right you kids, scram before I have all of you arrested!" the cop ordered, waving his billy club threateningly in their direction.

            Mush approached his detached friend and placed a tentative hand on his arm. "C'mon Jack, we gotta go."

            Unable to take his clouded eyes off the sight, he murmured, "Who coulda done such a thing as murder Medda?"

            "Let's go get some lunch. We can talk about it there." With the help of Pie Eater, he led Jack away.

            The next day, the murder of Medda Larkson was on the tongue of every New Yorker who knew of her… except Jack's. The one time the headlines were exceptionally good, it was a result of a tragedy that affected _him. Sales were lousy that afternoon. His heart wasn't in it. He just couldn't bring himself up to screaming out that Medda was dead._

            Race was the first to notice Jack's lack of enthusiasm that passed through the following week. "Fellas, we gotta help Jack out. Cheer 'im up or somethin'."

            "Race, Medda was _murdered. I don't think much'll cheer 'im up," Mush replied glumly. "None of us are very cheerful."_

            "Jack's like our leader… We at least gotta pretend. C'mon fellas, would 'e let down on us? _No!"_

            "Shut ya hole, Race." Skittery glared at him over the top of a tattered book.

            Jack entered at that moment. Everyone noticed the disjointed slump in his usually high-held shoulders.

"How's ever'thing, Cowboy?" Boots called from the side of the room. "Did th' bulls have anythin' t' say 'bout… well, ya know…"

            He shook his head, placing both hands over his face. "They wouldn't tell me nothin'… I don't even think they's _doin' anything. They's too __damn slow…" He collapsed onto his bed, and slowly placed his battered cowboy hat over his face. And then, quite promptly, he bolted to a sitting position again. His hat tumbled to the floor, and every newsboy stared up in surprise, seeing the old gleam back in Jack Kelly's eyes. "Boys… We's gonna do it."_

            "Gonna do what, Jack?" Itey asked, leaning forward, intrigued by the other boy's sudden change in behavior.

            "_We's gonna find out who done it."_

            "Who done what, Jack?" Race posed, around a cigar.

            "Who killed 'er."

            The room fell silent as over a dozen pairs of eyes turned to him. Even Skittery put aside his book to stare at the Manhattan newsboy leader.

            "Jack, we can't do that…"

            "Why not? We stood up t' ol' Pulitzer an' all his bums. So why can't we do this?"

            "We don't know nothin' about that kinda stuff," Mush replied, with his eyes expressing just how crazy an idea he thought it was.

            "What's there t' know? The bulls do it. Ya look for clues… c'mon, we's newsies! We know way more folks than the bulls. I'll betcha we'll have this murder solved b'fore they do!" He climbed to a stand on his bed, feeling the old excitement of a plan that had to work bubbling up inside of him. Since Medda's death, this had been the first thing he had felt sure of. "If ya won't do it for me, do it for Medda. If she's up there wit' God, or whatever, she's gotta right t' know who killed her."

            "Maybe she does," Mush pointed out.

            His face reddened with frustration. "Well, _we gotta right t' know! Dammit, if ya ain't wit' me, so be it." He shot a heated glare at each one of them._

            "I'm wit' ya Jack," Skittery was the first to speak up, much to everyone's surprise.

            Jack smiled grimly. "Anyone else?"

            Slowly, one by one, the other newsboys spoke up, announcing their inclusion to his scheme. The newsboys of Manhattan were back in action.

            "So, Jack... Got a plan?"

* * *

            Jack motioned for Mush, Skittery, and Bumlets to follow him the moment the coast was clear. The four of them crept through the night shadows towards the barred-off New Irving Hall. Silently, they rounded the building and found one of the building's less-frequented back doors. Reaching between the wooden planks, Jack pushed the door open and then, climbing between two planks, ducked inside. His friends were soon to follow. He pulled a match from his pocket and struck it, lighting a lantern that he long ago knew was near by. Then, taking it from the wall, he motioned for them to follow him. The investigators had certainly made a mess of the place. Or had the chaos been result of the attack by Medda's murderer? No one wanted to delve too deeply into those thoughts right away.

            "What're we lookin' for, Jack?" Mush inquired, stepping over a fallen stage prop.

            Jack rubbed his eyes helplessly and glanced around. "I dunno... Jus'... jus' _somethin'_. Y'know... somethin' that ain't so familiar to us. We's been here often enough that we oughtta know, right?" Without waiting for an answer, he went on ahead. Bumlets, Skittery, and Mush shrugged and warily followed him deeper into Irving Hall.

            "Where do ya think she was killed?" Bumlets finally asked. "We should look there first."

            He swallowed hard. "Um... look for... look for b-blood I guess." Taking a deep, ragged breath, he closed his eyes tightly before continuing. "Look for blood... an' look in all th' places Medda would've been. Like her dressin' room, th' stage, back stage, in th' audience-" 

            "Jack, she was always all over this place."

            "Jus' shut up an' look already!" he snapped in a stress-strained tone. "We'll split up... Bum, you an' Skitts check th' front. Mush an' I'll check back a ways."

            They split and began to investigate the area. "Hey Jack... think the bulls even _left_ anything behind?"

            Jack shrugged, digging through a pile of newspapers, clothing, and props. "They didn't know Medda. They dunno what t' look for." But even he wasn't sure of what he was looking for. All typical evidence he expected from a crime scene- blood, weapons- had already been taken away.

            "Jack! Jack!"

            Both boys turned in the direction the call had come from. Bumlets was waving something in the air. "I found somethin'."

            Jack turned and stumbled clumsily over the mess in attempts to reach him as quickly as possible. "What didja find?" He snatched the item from him and examined it. It was a slender, black, gold-topped cane. Speckled with blood.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: This is my first time doing one of these... *laughs* So... anyway... Thank you to everyone who reviewed the first chapter! I'm glad you liked it! *hugs*

**Chapter 2:**

            Jack took the cane and examined it. "Think she was killed by this or somethin'? Or was it jus' somethin' nearby that got..." he paused, swallowing hard, "in th' way?"

            "Dunno. But it's somethin'. That's better then nothin'... right?" Bumlets' brow knit together and he stared at the item in his friend's hand. "Why does that look so familiar?"

            He studied it longer. "I dunno... But we's takin' it wit' us." He nodded firmly, gripping it tightly in his hand.

            The others, too concerned for him, agreed.

            They continued their meticulous search, particularly in the area the cane had been found. Fabric that had been looked through was searched again, several times. No chair or table was left literally unturned.

            It was then Jack spotted them. Three dinged glass marbles, just near a chair leg he had tipped over, glinting a bit in the awkward lamplight. Upon closer observation, he noticed that these too were speckled with blood- just a spot here or there. One wouldn't have noticed it unless they were keenly searching for just that. The marbles and the cane struck a chord of familiarity within him, but he couldn't place his finger on just what the relationship the two items had. Carefully, he slipped the marbles in his pocket, knowing that it would come to him sooner or later. The final clue was a scrap of ripped satin also lightly speckled with a very, very fine spray of blood. Much time had passed during their search and they left Irving Hall in the wee hours of pre-dawn morning, tired, but having a sense of accomplishment.

            "We did good, fellas," Jack murmured, slipping into the lodging house. Kloppman had been kind enough to leave the door unlocked for them. The four left their nightly lodging rate on the front desk and quietly crept up the creaky staircase. To their surprise, the other newsies were still up; the older ones, anyway.

            "What's that you got, Jack?" Kid Blink inquired, gesturing to the cane in his hand.

            He tossed the slender object to him. "Found that... along wit' some other things."

            Race snatched it from Kid Blink and looked at it himself. "What else didja find?"

            Fishing in his pockets, Jack produce the scrap of cloth and the marbles. "Whad'ya think, fellas?"

            Race twirled the cane in his hands, staring hard at the tarnished gold cap. "Dunno what t' think, Jack. It'd be easier if we knew who didn't like Medda. But, I mean, who _couldn't_ like 'er?" He took his eyes off the cane for a moment and glanced at his friend. "I dunno 'bout you, but I jus' can't shake th' fact that I _know_ this cane!"

            "Hey, ain't that Spot's cane?" Itey inquired, almost offhandedly.

            Hastily, Jack snatched the cane from Race and peered closely at its cap. In tiny scratches were the initials S.C. "I knew it," he muttered to himself, thumbing the markings. "I knew it was familiar... an' th' marbles. Well... can't say those _were_ his, but ya know... Coulda been."

            "Why would Spot kill Medda?"

            "He didn't kill her!" was his vehement reply. "Spot wouldn't kill her!" But he couldn't ignore the sense of doubt niggling in the pit of his stomach. '_Right?_' he asked himself. '_Right?_'

            "Jack's right," Kid Blink replied. "Spot's one of us. He wouldn't do that... 'Sides... he coulda just been there an' left it..." Suddenly he turned to Jack. "Hey! Maybe Spot saw what happened!"

            That suggestion calmed Jack. He didn't like to assume his friend was guilty of such a crime. "Yeah. Yeah! Okay, we'll talk to 'im tomorrow... He'll know what happened." He glanced around the lodging house. "Let's get t' bed. We'll be tired sellin' papes." With that command, the others drifted off to bed. But Jack couldn't sleep. It kept rolling through his head. His trusted friend was now a suspect in Medda's murder. '_Say it ain't so, Spot._'

* * *

            The walk to Brooklyn was a nervous one. Jack and Bumlets crossed the Bridge, for once not taking the traditional pause to scream over the edge. They headed straight for the docks, where Spot and his boys usually were after selling newspapers. That day was no exception. Boys were leaping off the docks, climbing back on, engaging in horseplay, typical boy behavior. Spot was sprawled across a stack of boxes with his cap resting over his eyes.

            "Whad'ya doin' here?" demanded Spot's right-hand man, Tony.

            Jack and Bumlets both ignored him, approaching the leader. "Wha'dya say Spot," Jack greeted him.

            Spot pulled his cap off his face and squinted down on the docks. When he focused on them, he nodded and jumped down. "How's it rollin' Jack, Bumlets." He exchanged a spitshake with both. "What brings ya t' Brooklyn?"

            "Jus' doin' some investigatin'," was Jack's careful reply.

            Spot squinted at him. "Investigatin'?"

            "Yeah... See, Medda was murdered-"

            "So I heard."

            "Anyway-"

            "Think I did it or somethin'? Is that why ya came t' Brooklyn? Well, I didn't okay?"

            He stared at Spot. "No. I's jus' wonderin' if you'd been there that night or somethin'. If ya could point us in any direction, seein's how ya got boys out all over for ya findin' things out."

            Jack noted how Spot visibly relaxed. "Nah, Jacky-boy. I ain't heard nothin' 'cept th' search is goin' real slow."

            "Yeah, they's probably gonna give it up soon. I jus'... That can't happen? I gotta get justice for Medda."

            Spot smiled. "You do that, Jacky-boy."

            They fell uncomfortably silent. Off in the distance, a church bell tolled, ringing in the hour. Bumlets was the first to say anything. "Well, I guess we outta go, eh Jack? Evenin' papes to sell an' all?"

            After a brief pause, he seemed to break from his trance, and he nodded. "Yeah, yeah... Well, see ya 'round Spot."

            He nodded. "I'll let ya know if I find anythin' out!" he called as they walked away.

            "Thanks Spot." Jack and Bumlets left silently. They were halfway across Brooklyn Bridge when Jack stopped and leaned against the railing, looking at the expanse of dirty water below.

            "Spot didn't have it." Bumlets stood next to him, watching the sunset.

            "Didn't have what?" He turned to his friend.

            "His cane."

            Jack frowned, looking back at the water, thumbing the rim of his hat. "I know." Spot never went anywhere without his cane. It was a symbol of his power... and it helped keep his butt out of too much trouble. And he had been so tense and suspicious... He shook his head. '_I can't... I can't believe it... Not Spot..._' Smiling weakly at Bumlets, he began to walk again and Bumlets trotted beside him.

            "What're we gonna do?"

            He shrugged, taking out a cigarette and lighting up. "I dunno. I jus' don't know."__


End file.
